


Just Tonight

by vertebois



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Episode: s04e03 The Final Problem, M/M, Post-Episode: s04e03 The Final Problem
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-16
Updated: 2021-02-16
Packaged: 2021-03-18 05:08:18
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,217
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29484201
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vertebois/pseuds/vertebois
Summary: "In all the years he had known Mycroft Holmes, Greg Lestrade had never quite settled on a description of the man. His very being seemed to defy the act of definition itself: even when he’s out in broad daylight, a part of him seemed to remain amongst the shadows."My take on what happened after (and briefly during) the events at Sherrinford. Warning: this is not intended to be a hurt/comfort story, though it may resemble one at the outset.
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes & Eurus Holmes, Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade
Comments: 3
Kudos: 15





	Just Tonight

In all the years he had known Mycroft Holmes, Greg Lestrade had never quite settled on a description of the man. His very being seemed to defy the act of definition itself: even when he’s out in broad daylight, a part of him seemed to remain amongst the shadows, hidden beneath layers of finely tailored clothing and formulaic expressions that betrayed nothing of the being inside. Sometimes, when Lestrade shut his eyes against the warm drizzle of the shower at night, he would reenact those expressions against the dark screen of the inside of his lids: there was the look of barely-contained exasperation, usually when Sherlock was involved; the look of mock amusement, the look of disaffected boredom, the look of quiet menace, and, on rare occasions, the “I-disagree-but-can’t-be-bothered-to-refute-you” look, a fascinating combination of a tilt of the chin, a narrowing of the eyes and a slight curl of the lips. Oddly, it was this look that came up most often in Lestrade’s secret mind theatre, despite it being the least frequent in real life. There was a certain cockiness to it, a quality one wouldn’t usually associate with the elder Holmes, which made Lestrade wonder what he’d been like in his schoolboy days—no wonder he’d always been a serious child, but there had to be some youthful characteristic then, something more raw and immediate than this impenetrable mask that had become his trademark.

Language had never been Lestrade’s strong suite—he hadn’t read much beyond the odd thriller here and there after he was out of school—but if he were to choose words from his lexicon that fitted the likes of Mycroft Holmes, “broken” would never be one of them.

Until now.

The first thing he registered was the pungent smell of blood. The lights were dim, just enough to make out the outline of a still, supine form puddled on the ground, and for a terrible moment his heart stopped mid-beat. Then he caught a sliver of motion at the periphery of his vision, and he turned around just in time to stare into Mycroft’s haunted eyes. Relief washed over him and he found himself wanting to drop to his knees and collect the pallid figure into an embrace; instead he said, “Mr. Holmes, you’re safe now. Please come with us. Can you walk?”

Mycroft blinked slowly, as if unsure whether or not this was yet another of Eurus’ cruel tricks. But the screen on the wall remained dark, and no sound came from the loudspeaker above. He had been sitting in the far right corner of the cell, putting as much distance between the governor’s body and himself as physically possible, with his back against the wall and one hand resting upon a bent knee. He was in his usual attire, a three-piece suit in gunmetal blue accented with a tie of the same colour but several shades lighter, a sartorial combination that usually complimented his eyes but at the moment only served to underscore how tired and bloodshot they were. _He looks like a rag doll_ , Lestrade thought with a pang, then chased the thought away as he slowly approached the man, not wanting to spook him further.

The soft but steady vibrations of Lestrade’s impending footsteps seemed to assure Mycroft of the reality of the situation. He made an effort to get up, grimacing as blood rushed back to his legs.

“Here, let me.”

Lestrade put one arm around the other man’s shoulder and supported his elbow with the other. He felt Mycroft tense against him for a second, then relaxed in a way that indicated more surrender than relief. When they walked past the lifeless form near the entrance of the cell, splayed across the ground amidst a pool of congealing blood, he felt Mycroft’s breathing quicken and instinctively moved to block the latter’s view. It wasn’t until the elevator door closed behind them that he realized how much he had already gotten used to the coppery smell of blood, even in such a short amount of time. He suppressed a shudder at the thought of what it must have been like for Mycroft, who watched a man he knew blow his own brains out and sat beside the body for hours, alone and enshrouded in semi-darkness, all while worrying about the fate of his brother.

As if echoing his thoughts, Mycroft cleared his throat and asked, “Is Sherlock…?”

“Sherlock’s fine.” Lestrade answered quickly, “He and John both. Your sister is under custody. Now we just have to get you out of here.”

The other man gave a slight nod in lieu of verbal recognition. His voice sounded raspy and it seemed to cost him great effort to speak. As the elevator door slid open, he discreetly detached himself from Lestrade’s grip and stepped into the hallway, now lined with a different batch of armed security.

* * *

“We just spoke to your brother.”

“How is he?”

“He’s a bit shaken up, that’s all. She didn’t hurt him, just locked him in her old cell.”

“Well, what goes around comes around.”

Lestrade turned around briefly to face John. He wondered if John knew how much he wanted to punch him, to tear that sodding blanket from his shoulders and plant a good kick in his abdomen. He wouldn’t, of course, but he wasn’t sure how much longer he could hold back if he stayed. Mycroft wasn’t the only one to have been shaken up by the day’s events.

“Give me a moment, boys.” He said curtly and began to walk away, not bothering to circle around Sherlock, forcing the latter to turn and make way for him.

“Um…Mycroft, make sure he’s looked after.”

Lestrade stopped short in his tracks and whirled around. Sherlock must have seen the surprise on his face, for he went on to explain, almost sheepishly, “He’s not as strong as he thinks he is.”

If it hadn’t been for the severity of the situation, Lestrade almost felt inclined to laugh. _And it took us this long to see it. A bunch of fools, we are._

In the end he merely said, “Yeah, I’ll take care of it.”

Not _him_ , but _it_. Sometimes he wondered if Mycroft had rubbed off too much on him. Always be professional. Never let your guard down or your tongue slip.

Even when what was held back sat so heavy on your chest it hurt to breathe.

* * *

The air outside was so crisp it almost hurt to breathe.

Mycroft took giant lungfuls of it, hungrily, pushing the remnants of Sherrinford into the dark bowels of the night. But it was of little use; he could feel tiny droplets of evaporated blood clinging to his nostrils, tainting every breath. Whenever he closed his eyes, he saw the governor’s contorted face, the anguished pleading, the shards of flesh and bone disintegrating like some sort of grotesque piñata, filling the air with a pink mist. Dark crimson blooming on the crisp white collar of the governor’s shirt, permeating the entire space until Mycroft felt every inch of his skin coated with it. He’d lost count of the times he felt nauseous that night; bile stung the back of his throat and left a bitter taste, like the time he got sick as a child and woke from a particularly bad fit of fevered dreams. The entire trip to Sherrinford felt like that, only a thousand times worse.

“Mycroft?”

It was almost funny, really, how _worried_ Lestrade sounded. No one worried about Mycroft Holmes, as a rule; it was always the other way around.

“It’s fine.” He said tersely, without turning to look at Lestrade. He hated how low and gravelly his voice sounded, as if someone had rubbed his vocal cord with sandpaper. “Really, you shouldn’t have.”

He wasn’t exactly surprised when Lestrade insisted on taking him home, after he refused to visit a hospital in the middle of the night. “At least allow me to see you home,” the inspector had said, and Mycroft couldn’t summon the energy to argue. He knew it’d be a danger night for Sherlock, but John was with him, and it wasn’t like there was much he could do…hadn’t he just spent his entire lifetime proving that point?

He needed a cigarette, badly. And a scotch. Perhaps both. But first he’d need a shower, to get the smell of blood off. He wondered if it was just paranoia or if Lestrade could smell it too, radiating off him like the sickeningly sweet aroma of a poisonous plant. He wondered how many times Lestrade had to watch a man die.

The car crunched to a halt in front of Mycroft’s mansion. Before he could bade the inspector good night, Lestrade had already gotten out and was coming around to his side. Mycroft opened the door before Lestrade could and stepped out, suppressing a sigh. He’d seen his share of horrors in the past—perhaps not to the same degree as sharing a cell with the decaying corpse of an old acquaintance for several hours, but still. There was no need to treat him with kid gloves.

He tactfully evaded Lestrade’s outstretched hand and made his way towards the entrance, legs still somewhat numb from sitting on the hard prison floor. Lestrade followed, hanging a few steps behind him. The night was so still that he could hear the other man’s breathing, weary but calm, like tides rising and receding upon a deserted shore. He hesitated as he reached the doorstep.

“Would you care for a drink?”

A look of surprise flitted across Lestrade’s face, but before he could regret it the other man said “Sure—if it’s not too much trouble,” and turned around to gesture for the driver to leave.

It felt strange returning to his own house, as if he hadn’t been away for a day, but years. The warm, rich hues of its interior should have been comforting after the clinical bleakness of Sherrinford, but an involuntary shiver ran through him at the sight of it, less from the lingering chill than from the memories of two nights ago, the crippling sense of dread he’d felt when he realized the door had been locked from the outside. Barely forty-eight hours had passed, yet it already seemed like half a lifetime away. He lit a fire, then poured two scotch for Lestrade and himself. He wasn’t usually a fan of whiskey, but tonight he needed it, the way he needed fire and nicotine and—

“Do you want to talk about it?”

It was the first thing Lestrade said since they entered the house.

He shrugged. “I’m afraid there isn’t much to talk about,” he said, taking a sip of his drink, feeling the fiery warmth of the liquid suffuse his body, dissipating the soreness somewhat. “Sherlock must have filled you in on all the necessary details already. The rest I’m not at liberty to discuss.”

A look of mild exasperation rose in the inspector’s eyes. “I don’t mean _that_ , Mycroft. I meant—” his free hand made a vague gesture in Mycroft’s direction, before dropping defeatedly onto his thigh,“—forget it.”

In many ways, Mycroft Holmes was an even more difficult case than his recalcitrant little brother. As emotionally unreceptive as the former might be, Lestrade never hesitated to show affection on his part, knowing it wouldn’t elicit more than temporary discomfort from the detective and might even be secretly appreciated. But with the elder Holmes, things were a lot…trickier. Throughout his career Lestrade had encountered some of the most unsettling souls ever to lurk among the human race, yet none of them could put him as ill at ease the way a silent, brooding Mycroft could without even trying. Lestrade never knew where he stood with Mycroft, what kind of reaction he’d elicit and to what extent those reactions convey how the man actually felt.

“I’m staying for the night.”

Mycroft looked taken aback, less at the suggestion itself than the way it came as an announcement rather than a question. He opened his mouth to speak but Lestrade raised a hand to stop him, “Just…hear me out. I know you Holmeses like to think of yourselves as invincible, but what took place tonight is incredibly unsettling, even by your standards, Mycroft. You don’t have to talk to me, or anyone else for that matter, if you don’t want to. I understand that you need time and space to process things, and I have no wish to be intrusive, but I also don’t want to leave you alone immediately after a crisis. I’ve seen how dangerous that can be, and I’m not about to make the same mistake twice.”

Mycroft narrowed his eyes, reminding Lestrade of a displeased cat. “I’m hardly my brother, Inspector.”

“No.” Lestrade agreed pleasantly, “And thank God for that. But you can be every inch as stubborn when it comes to giving yourself a break, if not more. With all that said, you’re free to throw me out—it’s your house, after all, and I have a feeling I’ve quite overstayed my welcome.”

For a moment Mycroft stared down at the tumbler in his hand and said nothing. Firelight suffused his pale lashes with a golden glow. Lestrade had the sudden urge to touch them, to see if they would freeze beneath his fingertips like the wings of a startled butterfly. He silently chastised himself for conceiving yet another inappropriate metaphor that night. The combination of alcohol and adrenaline must be getting to his head.

Just when Lestrade was beginning to lose hope, Mycroft spoke. “Upstairs, second room to the right. There should be a set of pyjamas in the first drawer of the bureau.” It came out in one breath, as if afraid he would regret the words. He placed his unfinished drink on the mantel and rose from his seat, “I’ll go take a shower and get you the other necessities.” Before Lestrade could answer, he had already vanished down the hall.

Lestrade stood up, feeling a little dazed. He hadn’t really expected Mycroft to cave, at least not without more of a fight. The events at Sherrinford must have really worn him down.

Before he realized what he was doing, Lestrade picked up Mycroft’s drink and took a sip from where he saw the other man’s lips touch the container. It tasted exactly the same as his own, of course, but Lestrade let the liquid sit on his tongue for a couple of seconds, until he was certain that the memory of the flavour had been securely stored in every single tastebud. Then he downed it in one gulp and grazed a thumb over the rim of the glass, wiping away any incriminating evidence before restoring it to its place.

* * *

He watched as Sherlock and John, both comatose, were hauled out of the room, then made his way back to Eurus’ old cell as instructed. The smell of blood hit him like a fist; he’d almost forgotten about the tragedy that took place here less than an hour ago. He turned to face the screen, careful not to let his gaze dwell on the limp body in the corner.

“I suppose you won’t tell me where you’re taking them?”

Eurus’ laugh reverberated through the room, full of malicious glee.

“Oh, Mycroft, look at you.” Her voice dripped with mock pity, like she was addressing a misbehaved puppy, “That was a real treat, your little heroic stunt. You may fool the others, but you can’t fool me. Tell me, how did it feel to have baby brother pointing a gun at you? You know he’d pull the trigger on you over that pathetic pet of his any day, if it came down to that.” She shook her head in exaggerated movements, tsking. It reminded him sickeningly of Moriarty.

His sister always had a way of aiming for the jugular, he had to give her that.

“That loophole in your little scheme…” he managed with effort, “You could’ve told him that you’ll have us both killed if he doesn’t choose one. You already proved yourself fully capable of such behaviour. Why the sudden urge for mercy?”

Eurus snorted, “No point in flattering me, brother. You have to admit it was more entertaining that way, and entertainment is hard to come by when you’re stranded in the middle of the English Channel. Only so much you can do with these puppets before they break or you get bored. But you must empathize. Isn’t that what your job’s about? The puppet master of Great Britain.”

“I don’t kill for fun.”

“Ah. Yes. You always were the virtuous one. That’s why we can’t stand you, Sherlock and I. Mummy and Daddy, too, though they won’t ever admit it.”

“You know that’s ridiculous. Besides, given your utter lack of it, it only made sense for us to overcompensate.”

“Indeed. It’s the reason you entered public service, isn’t it? Guilt. Pure, delicious guilt. I have to say, it’s the best spice in this merry collection of human emotions; makes even the most bland dish of melodrama delectable.”

Mycroft glared at her, “Guilt for what?”

“For me. For what I did. You couldn’t live with the fact that your sister killed a kid and you weren’t able to do anything about it. So you got your arse into the government to make sure people are protected from maniacs like myself. It’s your way of saying sorry.”

“And you aren’t ever sorry, Eurus? For all I know, you could’ve been cruising outer space and discovering extraterrestrial intelligence by now, instead you chose to throw it all away and rot in the middle of nowhere.”

Eurus’ face hardened, “ _You_ locked me in the middle of nowhere, Mycroft. I didn’t choose this life.”

Mycroft felt anger rising in him like a dark, bitter tide, the usual barricades that kept his emotions in check falling away under duress.

“And you think I wanted this? That I take pleasure in keeping my sister institutionalized whilst orchestrating some elaborate lie about her death, keeping my family in the dark?”

Eurus shrugged, her face morphing back into cold indifference. “Don’t complain, Mikey. From what I’ve seen, the practice did you good.”

Mycroft’s eyes widened slightly as what she was insinuating dawned on him. “That was different. It was the only way Sherlock could have survive Moriarty’s plan unscathed. And it was only for two years. _And_ our parents knew.”

“Ha. Always the caring, dutiful son. How touching. Doesn’t it ever bother you that they always preferred Sherlock?”

Mycroft said nothing. Eurus smiled.

“Hit a sore spot, haven’t I? Oh, you always were so predictable, Mikey. Just imagine their reaction when they learn that you kept my existence from them all these years.” Eurus leaned forward, her face looming over the screen, voice lowering into a dangerous whisper, “They’d tear you to shreds.”

With that, the screen went black.

Mycroft let out a long, shaky breath and allowed himself to lean back against the wall. _Better that_ , he thought wryly as Eurus’ final threat lingered in his ears. Better that, than have them bear witness to their daughter’s dark descent, powerless to stop the force that lay waste to everything in its path.

TBC

**Author's Note:**

> When I was rewatching The Final Problem I noticed that only Sherlock and John were shown to be drugged with tranquilisers, so it was possible that Mycroft had been deliberately kept sober. I thought it would be interesting to capture he and Eurus' exchange (for there would have been an exchange); according to what Mycroft revealed at Baker Street, he was the only one who could actually get answers out of Eurus when they were little, be seen by her as somewhat of an equal (even if a little slow), and talk to her without being "reprogrammed." This is my attempt at exploring their antagonistic and fascinating relationship a little.


End file.
